The Hour of Grace (Christmas Truce)

 

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It is night and I am woken by the flat of someone’s hand on my shoulder. I uncurl from my tarpaulin-material cover that is supposed to keep us dry but is hardly long enough to waterproof our back. Who ever devises army issue must think its summer all year round….I stiffly straighten my back and take in my surroundings: maybe someone has got off sentry duty, and I’ve been volunteered to take over. Great (ha).

The air is clear, the sky pitch black yet it is not cold, not as much as you’d expect, any how. The moon is unexpectedly bright, lending a golden shadow to everything, almost a glow which I find strange because I have noticed lately how moonlight usually makes all colours monochrome. I persuade my feet to move along behind my mate and the trench base is a bit slushy from the recent snow. On the top, and the parapet, it has frozen now to that consistency that made really stinging snowball that everyone, except the one throwing them, used to hate. If you got up, into No-mans land and walked, it’d sound crispy underfoot. I prefer the snow when it’s just settled, smooth, equalising everything beneath it….like a blanket Ma used to say. The frost is setting it, and tiny lights sparkle in the white. Good thing there are no patrols out tonight, they would have shown up like a General with a spade.

It was then, as I approach a group of seven pals hunched round something to get warm, that it hits me. They’re all silent, staring rapturously at the very top of the parapet. I make to enquire what the hell they’re waiting for: Father Christmas? When they wave me quiet. The soldier who woke me gestures I should sit down, as if we are waiting for the opening scene of an especially choice show, and the others make a gap for me near their trench heater—a tiny affair, the type that glows yellow-orange in such a homely manner, you feel hotter just by seeing it. Tuck throws the butt of his cigarette end into it, then turn expectantly to the parapet again.

Suddenly Corp. signals for absolute silence. A sound grows into the air, unexpected and beautiful, lulling me into wonder as it blends subtly with the magical tingle of the night. It is the same tingle as you feel as a child, waiting for snow and the few presents your parents can afford on Christmas morning. A sound that turns out to be nearly as precious. The Germans are singing….Slowly the joker of our company stands up, and we think he is going to make fun of the singers and we quietly press him not to. That is not his intention however:- moved almost to tears on his tough, weathered face, he listens for a moment, then finding a section of tune that he recognises, he joins in…We wait. The Germans keep singing…so does he…Gradually, we all stand up and do the same. An eerie shiver runs through us, I can see the others feel it too. Something special is going on….The Germans stop. We wonder what is wrong. Have we offended them? Then we hear laughing.

“Merry Chris’ mass, Englishman! You enjoy our service?” calls a deep amused voice.

Another, higher, younger, “You are welcome to join with us”

The trenches are so close together here that we can easily hear the deep laughter of several ‘Fritzes’, and more exclamations, replying with some of our own and a few tins of bully beef, knowing them to be short of that sort of rations. They throw back cigars, and then;

“Are you ready, Englishman?” The Germans start singing, as if in joking challenge. It’s the same tune.

“Stille Nachte, Helige Nachte, Alles Schlafte, einesam Wacht...............Schlaft in himlisher ruhr..., Schlaft in Himlisher ruhr!“ (Please forgive any spelling mistakes—it’s a long time since I ‘learnt’ this hymn in German!)

When they finish the first verse, we give them the second before they can start. They roar with laughter but we carry on like that, alternating all through the carol, as if it had been by arrangement. After a few goes, they try to do the English verses and we theirs. There is much joshing and laughing. Later, as both sides sing the carol right through together, in each other language as best we can, each of the men of our company is otherwise quiet, eyes distant, seeing only images of home and loved ones, Christmases past and Suddenly we realise the Germans are seeing those same things. They are not the legendary beasts of propaganda, they are like us—ordinary men, sent to fight, not sure if they want to but having to do it, having to share these harsh winter conditions, missing home where they’d rather be, celebrating Christmas with their families in their own way—not stuck out here with us. I sing on, incredulous at this unorthodox meting of minds and decide never to regard a German as different again. From my brain to my stomach, I cannot believe this marvellous incident is happening, and with me as part of it. Why are we at war? I’m sure I’m not the only one asking tonight.

Some days afterward, another soldier, an Officer, carrying a brown leather notebook, told me of events that night on his sector. There the Saxons put out decorated trees and candles. His story will make an interesting addition to a poem I intend to write about all this—but the sentiment it conveys will be entirely my own - I am content with my own experience.

Christmas Eve, 1914 is a miracle I will never forget—it will resound forever in my mind as unique thing of wonder and magic, in my heart as a feeling of pure delight. It truly was an ‘Hour of Grace’ (from ‘Silent Night, J.Muhr)—that fighting men should be unified by a season and tune---I believe nothing like this will ever happen again.